


where there remains but a mark

by serenityfails



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Act 2, Canon-Typical Violence, Injury, M/M, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Mid-Canon, POV Hawke, Pining, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 03:04:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13941222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenityfails/pseuds/serenityfails
Summary: Fenris is hurt, and Hawke is a healer, but some things magic can't fix.





	where there remains but a mark

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Jared](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iodhadh) for a second pair of eyes and [Riss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoebox) for cheering and ruthless extermination of excess punctuation. Here is 3.5k of me hurting Hawke and Fenris, but mostly myself.
> 
> I miss Fenris' POV here, but my personal definitive Fenris POV has already been done with deftness and care by [Toft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/pseuds/homsantoft) in [_between the elevated road and the water_](https://archiveofourown.org/series/472780), which everyone should always be reading, forever.

It was long past midnight in the diminishing days of Kingsway, and Fenris was watching orange smoke rise in the distance from a forge in the Foundry District, and Hawke was drunk.

Fenris was drunk too, but he somehow had the infuriating ability to make it look mysterious and alluring. Or, possibly, Hawke was just very drunk. Drunk enough to offer to walk Fenris back to his crumbling squatter's paradise, but not drunk enough to forget what a _deeply_ inadvisable idea that was. Not stumbling drunk, at least, or else making it up all nine-blighted-hundred stairs to Hightown would've been a great deal harder than it already was.

"Hawke," Fenris started, turning his gaze away from the horizon. Hawke snapped to attention, which was difficult when Fenris' hair caught the moonlight like that, damn him. Fenris made a frustrated sound, one of the ones that Hawke hadn't realized he'd missed hearing so badly. It had been a few excruciatingly awkward months since their aborted attempt at starting a relationship, and cards with the whole motley Kirkwall crew was as good an excuse as any to see Fenris without cloaking it in a request for his aid in a fight. Getting to see Fenris laugh again, being able to _make him_ laugh-- it almost made it hurt less.

"Thank you," Fenris finally said, after clearing his throat.

"For what, losing worse than you? No worries, I've got no pride left to speak of after the time Merrill managed to best me."

"Isabela was helping her cheat," Fenris said.

"Isabela _cheats?_ " Hawke grabbed his head, as if stunned, but he couldn't help breaking character with a smile to answer the one tugging at the corner of Fenris' lips. Every smile from Fenris felt like a victory.

"That's not what I meant, anyway. I meant to thank you for... this. It's simply..." Fenris trailed off again, his brow creasing as he searched for the words. "I would not..."

He never completed the thought. His demeanor changed suddenly as they turned a corner into Hightown, and Hawke could see him scanning the shadows between pockets of moonlight. Under his breath, he said, "We are being followed."

"Again?" Hawke squinted past a lit torch and caught a flash of steel, then another. Five men in all, if he had the right of it. "That's the third time this week."

"You really ought to start bringing the dog to Wicked Grace night."

"Last time I did Isabela tried to get him drunk, and you know me, I never make the same mistake for a fifth time." Hawke stopped walking and maneuvered himself into a position where he wasn't likely to get jumped from behind or inadvertently back himself and Fenris into a corner, then raised his voice for their audience. "Hello there, shady bastards," he said, "could you demand my purse already so me and my friend here can trounce you and send you on your way? We're all very busy evildoers here."

The faint sound of weapons unsheathing was their warning. Their assailants burst from the shadows, and Hawke headed them off with a wave of his hand. A sheet of jagged ice shot up from the ground to stop them before they could reach either himself or Fenris. Most of them dodged, but two caught the brunt of it, slipping on the frozen street, slowed as the cold crept into the gaps in their armor. Fenris flared beside Hawke, a harsh blue ghost in the dim moonlight. Usually Hawke got a twisted kind of enjoyment from the look of terror on a foe's face at the sight of Fenris’s unorthodox abilities, but these men didn't even seem startled. Then, like being doused in ice water, Hawke felt the crush of a paralyzation spell engulf him, rooting him where he stood. Somewhere in the group, there was a mage.

No simple cutpurses, then.

Hawke was grateful that Fenris never traveled anywhere without his weapon, regardless of how much unwanted attention it drew. An apostate wandering Kirkwall with a mage's staff was begging for a Templar's boot up his ass, so Hawke only took it when he absolutely needed it, passing it off as a quarterstaff or a polearm. As often as he crossed paths with the Templars, it was possible that illusion was well and truly shattered. Still, while they hadn't come to his door just yet, Hawke wasn't used to traveling with anything more deadly than a knife on his belt during daylight hours. Doing magic without a staff was possible, but far more difficult. Late as it was, and dulled as his senses were by drink, it was going to be a tough enough fight already.

Fenris sliced through an attacker's midsection unflinchingly, and caught one in the chest with the point of his blade when he fell on Hawke's conjured ice. Hawke finally managed to break the mage's compulsion over him, and scanned the street for the source. He called out to Fenris when he spotted her, another spell forming itself in glyphs at her feet. Fenris turned and focused his attention on the new target, freeing Hawke up to lob a fireball at the cluster of remaining swordsmen. It crashed into the ground with uncontrolled force and sent another of them running, screaming and clutching at his burning clothes. Then an arrow whistled past Hawke's head from behind, catching the edge of his ear with a painful sting, and Hawke swore.

There were at least ten, possibly more, and Hawke couldn't guess where all of the archers were hidden. He had no armor, so conjured armor would have to do. Hawke felt his already strained energy dwindle as he blocked an arrow that would have caught him through the throat with a raised arm encased in jagged stone. He answered the volley with another blast of ice, hoping to at least delay some of them. He could hear Fenris roaring a battlecry near him over the zap of magic, but he couldn't turn to look without risking more arrows.

It went on for too long. Every man Hawke took down, another was there to replace him, and another to distract him from helping Fenris. His nerves were on fire from stretching his limits, and he didn't have any lyrium potions to take advantage of. If they just could've gotten closer to the estate...

A loud growl of pain from Fenris made his attention falter. Hawke risked a glance; the mage was dead, but Fenris was on the ground, and being overwhelmed by summoned shades. Without thinking, Hawke pulled deep, deep out of the last dregs of mana he had left in him and _pushed_. Fire erupted from his bare hands, incinerating the attackers closest to him and knocking the others away in an arc that left them senseless on the ground. Praying the Maker was merciful, he drew his knife and ran to Fenris, slashing through unnatural, smoke-filled air to cut at the half-formed manifestations of the Fade with what little strength he had left.

Hawke was relieved to find Fenris alive, and his blade was still in hand, but the shade furthest from him had gouged his leg with demonic teeth and claws and left behind an ugly, shredded mess. Fenris couldn't quite stand, but he used the distraction Hawke had provided him to unleash a pulsing burst of energy from his lyrium markings, shredding the enemy mage's pets into nothingness.

With that, it was quiet in the street again, but for the lingering sound of frozen corpses cracking in the autumn air. Aveline's people were going to have quite the clean-up job. Again. Hawke would have to remember to send her a fruit basket or something.

The quiet broke when Fenris put weight on his ruined leg and cried out in pain.

"Fenris!" Hawke hadn't a drop of mana left, and only the lingering rush of adrenaline was keeping him from collapsing right next to him. "Shit, don't try to stand."

Fenris was ashen, no longer flush with drink and flirtation. There was blood pooling under his feet. He leaned heavily on the hilt of his sword before Hawke stepped in to balance him.

"I... don't suppose... you can..." Fenris said. He sounded breathless, each word laborious. Hawke wanted to kill their assailants a second time for it. Usually he would rifle through their pockets, or at least try to figure out who they were and why they had come for them with such force, but there was no time for that now.

"I'm out of juice," Hawke said, and knelt slowly, showing Fenris his back. "Climb on."

"What--" Fenris began, but Hawke shook his head.

"Get on, we're going to my place. I've lyrium potions, and that leg needs healing, _now_."

"I can walk," Fenris said, but a second attempt at it nearly sent him to the ground again. Hawke caught him. Without further protest, Fenris slotted his legs between Hawke's offered arms, and Hawke strained to haul him up onto his back, gripping his thighs.

It was slow going. Hawke was a strong man, accustomed to heavy lifting from his time as a farmer and a smuggler both, but he was exhausted, and Fenris, well-built himself, was no small weight. Blood seeped into Hawke's clothes, and Fenris hissed in Hawke's ear, gritting his teeth through the pain.

It figured that this would be the only way he got to feel Fenris pressed against his back again.

"Hang on," Hawke bit out. "Just a bit further."

Hawke mentally added "unlocking a door while the man you love bleeds out on top of you" to his list of job skills as he stumbled into the entryway, kicking the door closed behind him. A trail of blood followed as he carried Fenris to the chair by the fireplace, now burnt down to embers. He tried to set him down as gently as possible. Fenris half slipped, half hopped from Hawke's back and landed in the seat with a wince.

"Stay right where you are, don't move," Hawke said, and went to rummage through his packs. He emerged with two bottles in hand: one small and blue, one a deep golden brown.

"One for me," Hawke said, yanking the cork out of the blue bottle with his teeth, "and one for you." Hawke pushed the brown bottle, Fereldan whiskey he had intended to share with Varric, into Fenris' hand, and emptied the contents of the small one into his mouth. The change was immediate; lyrium had a particular quality that smelled faintly of ozone and made your hair stand on end. Hawke went from utter exhaustion to manic energy, the buzz of mana pushing at his fingertips from inside and waiting to be spent. He used it to re-ignite the flagging fire, giving him better light to see the damage by.

"I need to make sure the bone's not broken," Hawke said, kneeling before Fenris and placing his hands near the site of the injury without touching. "If it is, this might be... unpleasant." Fenris swallowed, jaw taut, but he nodded his consent. He uncorked the whiskey and took a long pull from it in anticipation.

Fenris' leg was an indiscernible mess of blood and ruined cloth. His leggings were completely shredded, and Hawke was afraid they might even be embedded in the wounds, which would make healing them cleanly more difficult. Like this, it was hard to tell if there would be damage to the bone itself. He would have to cut the cloth and clean the wounds to be sure.

"This won't be comfortable, but I have to clear some of this away before I can do anything," Hawke said softly. Fenris was no longer in mortal danger, and there was no sense waking everyone else in the house. "And the trousers are a loss, unless you're into the short pants look." Hawke tried for a smile that felt too brittle at the edges. Fenris didn't return it this time.

"Do what you must."

Hawke left him in silence by the fire, and returned with an armful of supplies and a basin full of well water, which he set before Fenris' feet. The dog followed behind him; evidently the noise, and possibly the smell of blood, had roused him from sleep. He sat attentively at Fenris' side, as if guarding him from further danger. Hawke cut away the tatters of Fenris' pants leg, peeling them carefully away from skin caked with congealing blood. He heard Fenris hiss under his breath and muttered apologies in response. Then, with a wet cloth, he began the trickier work of cleaning the drying blood away.

"Here," Hawke said, maneuvering Fenris' foot to rest on the rim of the wooden basin so the bloody water wouldn't pool on the floor. The floors were already going to need a good scrubbing. Hawke made a mental note to give Orana a huge bonus. He looked up to gauge Fenris' reaction, his foot still cradled between Hawke's broad hand and the damp rag, and said, "Is this all right?"

Fenris had a waxen pallor from pain and blood loss, and he seemed to be puzzling at Hawke's hands before he met his eyes. It took him a moment to speak.

"Yes."

Relieved, Hawke continued, gently cleaning the gore and debris from Fenris' leg. The clean water grew pink and murky with blood, and he worked until the site of the injury finally seemed clear enough for healing magic. Setting the dirtied rag on the side of the bin, he flexed his hands and reached for his renewed stores of mana, searching, exploring. Injuries growled at healing magic like hunger, drawing its attention. Hawke released a breath when he found no evidence of fracture. That would make this a lot simpler, and less painful for Fenris. "No breaks. Just the rest, then." He reached out with tendrils of energy again and began to map out the injury. Fenris was lucky it hadn't reached bone, as deep as it was. Taking rhythmic, meditative breaths to center himself, Hawke began to knit flesh to flesh, starting where each wound was deepest and working gradually outward, then back again, from gash to jagged gash.

It was difficult work, not the least because the draw of Fenris' lyrium markings was competing with his injuries for the attention of Hawke’s spellcasting. It was like a faint mental tug. He could feel it in battle, too, when Fenris' markings flared to life behind him and he sensed the change in the air. He wondered if Fenris felt the same pull in turn when Hawke was casting. The thought made him queasy with guilt. Surely, that constant reminder of what had been done to him, of what Hawke was, must have been discomfiting. Hawke had thought of Fenris' leaving hundreds of times, rolling the reasons over and over in his head when sleep eluded him and loneliness found him vulnerable. This one in particular had a starring role in his anxieties. Of course Fenris wouldn't find this easy. Hawke had been arrogant to think he could be the exception.

Hawke was not sure how much time had passed when Fenris' leg was finally healed, the skin unbroken but for the lines of lyrium and traces of dirt and blood. The sky outside was no longer black, but the faint gray of approaching dawn. Hawke's brow had broken out in a sweat, and he swiped the back of his arm across his forehead as he surveyed his work, dark hair sticking to his skin. He was no great healer, but he was grateful now for his father's lessons, and even for the advice he had taken from Anders.

However, Fenris' leg and foot were still filthy, street dust and dried blood crossing his thick calves and long-boned feet like river lines on a map. Before he could second-guess himself, Hawke dipped the washrag in the basin, wrung it out, and brought it to the worst of the grime with a careful touch. He felt Fenris' muscles tense, then relax underneath his hands, but Fenris offered no protest. Hawke's heart was trapped somewhere in his throat.

"Those bloody things nearly killed you," Hawke said. His voice sounded rougher than he meant it to, exhaustion and strength of feeling scraping it raw. He heard Fenris draw and release a measured breath above him.

"I'm fine," he said. Hawke snorted. He wrung out the rag, then continued his methodical strokes, revealing clean brown skin pass by pass.

"Loose definition of 'fine', Fenris."

"I'm fine," Fenris said, more firmly. "I... You were there. You're here."

_Oh._

Hawke felt like the breath had been punched out of him. He allowed the repetitive motions of his hands to guide him through it before he did something too embarrassing, like touch his sweat-beaded forehead to Fenris' knees. He was so close. Hawke hadn't dared to touch him, even casually, since that night. He didn't expect anything from Fenris, but Maker, he _wanted._ He had done his dogged best to put on a friendly face--look, see how awkward I'm not, no need to worry--but it was a constant effort to swallow the desire for more, now that he knew what it felt like to kiss Fenris, to be kissed by Fenris, to have Fenris hold him to the bed and breathe Hawke's name into his ear. Hawke hadn't been able to take the time with Fenris he had wanted to take, and now there would never be time again.

"Well," Hawke said around the thudding pulse in his ears, "if I have my way, I always will be."

The words were out of his mouth before he could take them back, but Hawke found that he stood by them. Even if Fenris never wanted him again, even if things between them could never be right again, could never be what they might have been, Hawke couldn't love him less than he did. He knew it for what it was now. This man had scrawled his name on Hawke's damn fool heart, and it was his now whether he wanted to claim it or not.

Fenris was clean, Hawke's work done with one final, careful stroke of the cloth. Hawke set it aside, set Fenris' bare foot against the warmed stone tile, and looked up at him for the first time since he'd started. The heat of the gaze upon him when he did was searing. His face burned. Fenris regarded him in silence, and Hawke felt naked, drawn out and laid bare for Fenris to read every secret thought and feeling Hawke had swallowed for his sake. Not a drop of it was resentment. If taking back that night was the price of keeping Fenris in his life, he would have paid it gladly.

Fenris reached out, a rough, callused finger tracing the curve of Hawke's ear. It stung, a scab disturbed. Hawke had forgotten he'd even been injured. There was a shock of red cloth tied securely around Fenris' wrist that had once belonged to Hawke, that been there since the morning he left.

He dodged the touch with a shake of his head, toweled Fenris' skin dry, and lifted himself to his feet.

"Leg's healed, and I think that's all the blood off you. Sorry your pants couldn't be saved, though, may they rest in peace. Pieces. _Please_ tell me you'll finally let me take you to the damned tailor like I've been asking." He was babbling, he knew, like he always did when things got a little too tangled up to do anything but laugh it off. Fenris might as well have been a statue of a man, for all he just stared at Hawke, through him. Fenris could reach through a man's body as if it were no more substantial than the surface of a pond, and still Hawke never felt as transparent as he did when Fenris merely looked at him.

"It's still sort of dark out, though, so maybe you could get away with walking home without scandalizing the nobility by flaunting your ankles. Or you can stay here!" Hawke's ears flushed, damn his mouth for running ahead of him again. "I mean, there's probably a cot somewhere I can pull out, or couches. There's _so many_ couches. I don't know what Mother thinks we need that many couches for, I guess they judge rich people by how many couches they have in their homes that nobody's ever sat on. Or you can go home, and I can stop talking forever. Please say something before I show you exactly how much more of a colossal ass I am than you already knew."

Fenris' passive silence finally broke at that, and he laughed, one small, rough puff of air that drew the corner of his mouth into a smile. A knot of tension Hawke hadn't realized he was holding between his shoulders dissipated at the sight.

"I think I'll return home. And possibly sleep until tomorrow night." He glanced to his sword, dropped unceremoniously in the entryway, still caked in gore. His forehead creased. "Ugh. And deal with that. It would not do to ruin the blade."

"I've got about ten spare blades in the closet, if you need another."

"You know," Fenris said, "some might call you a highwayman, with the way you steal equipment from your slain enemies."

"I prefer 'graverobber'," Hawke said, and Fenris laughed openly at that. Hawke moved the basin, allowing Fenris to stand and test out the sturdiness of his leg. "I can walk you the rest of the way before passing out, probably. And I'm taking my damn staff this time, just in case anyone decides to take advantage of a two-for-one special on murder attempts."

"Thank you, Hawke," Fenris said, low and with sincerity that belied Hawke's flippancy. "If you'll allow me to repay you in drink, I've a bottle or two of stolen wine that I think will go quite well with your stolen swords."

"It's a d--" Hawke stopped himself. "A plan. I'll knock extra loud just to make sure I definitely wake you up if you're still asleep when I come by. Maybe practice my war cries. Then you can use me for target practice. It'll be grand."

"I'll hold you to that," Fenris said. _You can hold me to more than that,_ Hawke very admirably managed not to say.

The dog followed them to the door, a watchful sentinel at Fenris' heel. Fenris scratched him behind the ear as they walked, a fond smile softening his harsh features, the stolen red token on his wrist standing out starkly in the diffuse light of early dawn. Despite everything, Fenris was still here, by his side, bearing Hawke's futile love without scorn. _This could be enough,_ he thought. _With time, this could be enough._


End file.
